


les neiges d'antan

by onymouse



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onymouse/pseuds/onymouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the future. Takao's not a fan of the games that Akashi and Midorima play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	les neiges d'antan

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: excessive amounts of banter, purple prose, possible inaccuracies of physics

00.

"Aomine," Midorima says, "have you ever heard of the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics?"

They're sitting in a seedy restaurant on the outskirts of Shibuya, victim to another of Kise's annual get-people-drunk-so-they-forget-that-they-hated-each-other-in-high-school reunions. Takao's off in a corner with Kasamatsu, but instead of having some time alone, Midorima's been cornered by the entire Touou coalition, all of whom have a nasty habit of growing bitchier with each sip of alcohol.

"Are you serious?" Sakurai slurs from across the table. "I'm sorry, but I don't think theoretical physics is his thing. I mean, I'm really sorry, but his mind just isn't wired to process anything more complicated than throwing a ball through a hoop and shooting bad guys. I used to think the surly, brainless exterior was a facade concealing a brilliant mind, but turns out he's just an idiot." He blinks at Aomine. "Sorry for overestimating you for so long."

"Drunk Ryou is my favorite," Imayoshi says, gesturing for another round of beers. "But to return to the question at hand, I'm fairly sure I can answer for my pain-in-the-ass former kouhai by saying 'no, what is a quantum mechanic'."

Aomine glares balefully at all of them with eyes that can't quite seem to focus and mutters, "Cats in boxes."

"My god," Imayoshi says, withdrawing his arm from Sakurai's shoulder so that he can applaud, "I don't think I've ever heard a more succinct or accurate portrayal of Schrodinger's thought experiment. This from the same man who once ran shrieking from a tiny fuzzy bumblebee, crashed through the doors of the girls' locker room, and had the shit beaten out of him by the volleyball club."

"What does that have to do with his understanding of physics?" Midorima asks, momentarily diverted.

Imayoshi smiles pleasantly. "Nothing," he says, "it's just one of my favorite stories." He drains his glass with a happy sigh and calls out, "Takao!"

"Hi," Takao says, and then the weight of his body is nestled warm and familiar against Midorima's side. "Have we reached the part of the reunion where Imayoshi releases years of bottled-up resentment against Aomine, making everyone incredibly uncomfortable until Kise comes over to rescue his one true love and dissipates the tension by sparkling?"

"Yes," Sakurai says.

"Oh good," Takao says, "I missed it last year and have yet to forgive myself." He reaches for Midorima's glass and lifts it, glowing and happy. "To resentment!"

Beneath the table, his other hand seeks out the edge of Midorima's jacket and clings on, too tight. He's wound like a spring, the muscles of his legs tensed in sharp juxtaposition to the carefree laughter that hovers behind each word. Midorima's never understood why Takao drags himself to each reunion with clockwork regularity -- but then, there are too many things he doesn't quite understand about Takao: the thinly-veiled dislike of Aomine and Kise, the existence of Kasamatsu Yukio as a constant in their lives, the smile that he uses as both sword and shield.

The way he looks at Midorima sometimes, wild and a little desperate, like he's waiting for Midorima to rip himself from his arms and run without a single backwards glance, sparks from his heels setting fire to the years behind him.

"Shin-chan," Takao says, gentle, and Midorima realizes with a start that he's just been staring at Takao's face in an introspective haze. "Ah," he says, tearing his eyes away. "The many-worlds interpretation -- in layman's terms, it's the theory that all possible alternate histories are realized, each in a different universe."

"That's -- great," Aomine says. "So?"

"So," Midorima says, pulling off his glasses to polish them against his shirt. The cloth makes a small squeaking noise against the lens. "I can assure you that there does not exist a single universe in which events in my life would result in my being willing to answer your question."

"That's the most eloquent 'fuck off' I've ever heard," Imayoshi says, wiping away an imaginary tear.

Aomine rolls his eyes. "Aren't you a med student?" he says. "Didn't you swear an oath to help those in need?"

"I hardly think Hippocrates will turn in his grave because I refuse to aid your sexual deviancy by giving you safety tips," Midorima answers dryly. "And might I remind you, those handcuffs are paid for by the citizens' tax dollars."

He slides his glasses back on to see both Takao and Sakurai eyeing Aomine's duty belt with speculative curiosity. "No," he and Imayoshi say as one. (Actually, Imayoshi says "Not again," but Midorima doesn't really want to think about the implications of that comment.)

Behind him, the door to their private room slides open with a soft click, like the cocking of a gun.

Midorima doesn't turn. The name of the intruder is scrawled across the faces of everyone there in blood-red letters a foot high, and the air evacuates his lungs in a single involuntary exhale. At his side, Takao breathes, "Oh," soft and a little unhappy.

"Akashicchi!" Kise squeals, bounding forward. "You should have let us know you were coming!" He drags Akashi into the room -- Midorima can tell by the rhythm of Akashi's feet, etched indelibly into the crevices of his mind from a lifetime of chasing those footsteps. "Didn't you say you were busy tonight?"

"My game ended early," Akashi says. His voice curls around the edges of Midorima's consciousness, prodding for chinks in the swiftly cracking ramparts. "It's been a while, hasn't it? No need to cry, Ryouta."

"Not that we're not all overflowing with delight," Kuroko says mildly, "but why this year? We've gotten used to your absence. Murasakibara brings a pastry statue of you to each reunion."

He gestures to the corner, where a sugary effigy of Akashi is slowly toppling. Some bitter underling of Akashi's has gnawed off half the face out of spite (Aomine scrubs at his mouth with the back of one hand), but the eyes are still there, two angry gumdrops peeking out from their chocolate hollows. Akashi plucks out the lemon one and pops it thoughtfully into his mouth.

Then he smiles, a miniature Mephistopheles in a frog-patterned tie, damnation lurking in the curve of his lips.

"Someone was waiting for me," he says, and the last of Midorima's defenses come crashing down like the wall of Jericho in the face of his conviction.

01.

Paris in summer stank of sweat and roses, a sea of miserable tourists caught in the Charybdian eddies of the street vendors. Takao begged for spontaneity, so despite all of his better instincts Midorima followed him down a random walk of grungy alleyways that seemed likely to lead to death or dismemberment or the slow ruination of his Italian loafers. They emerged to the glitter of sunlight on an overarching tessellation of glass that redefined beauty in its purest Euclidean sense.

"It's fate," Midorima said, stroking his lucky collar with one finger.

"It's the directions from Google Maps that you wrote on your palm," Takao muttered, but whether he was dazzled by the light or the band of red leather around Midorima's throat, he let Midorima propel him into the Louvre with minimal grumbling.

Apparently the dazzling failed to wear off, because Takao stayed uncharacteristically quiet while Midorima dragged him from gallery to gallery, waxing lyrical about the splendor of Bosch and Delacroix and Gros. He only interrupted the last of these speeches to say, "Did you just call him Antoine-Jean? Shin-chan, in the fantastical world that is your brain, are you _friends_ with this eighteenth-century neoclassical painter?"

"Like you don't spend every NBA game screaming instructions to 'Steve' and 'LeBron'," Midorima returned.

Takao fixed him with a cool stare. "That's because LeBron and I are homies," he said, just to see the flush of secondhand embarrassment that suffused Midorima's face. "Anyway, keep going. I like to hear you talk, even if your fascination with a portrait of dying plague victims is a little morbid."

Midorima sighed. "There's really no need to humor me, Takao --"

"Sorry," Takao said, his eyebrows shooting up, "I can't hear you over the sound of my thunderous disbelief. Shin-chan, in case you haven't noticed, our entire relationship is predicated on my humoring you. In fact, I am the only person with the mental fortitude for it, which is one of the reasons why we're so perfect together, oh my god Shin-chan your face looks like a blushing tomato."

'No, _you're_ a tomato' just didn't have the appropriate dignity to it, so Midorima scowled and turned back to the painting. Takao laughed and went up on tiptoes to rest his chin on Midorima's shoulder, at which point they both lost balance and came about a centimeter away from crashing into a priceless Caravaggio.

"Anyway," Takao said blithely, while Midorima hyperventilated and had a brief vision of museum guards peddling his organs on the black market, "I enjoy spoiling you. It's fun, and I like to think it makes up in part for the trauma of your childhood."

"What trauma," Midorima said.

Takao blinked. "I don't know," he said carefully. "I guess I just assumed that having everyone think of you as a crazy person might have had a debilitating effect on your psyche."

"Oh, that," Midorima said.

\--

For dinner, they went to one of the tourist traps on the Champs-Elysees. Takao ordered six different desserts and licked the cream from his fingers, staring at Midorima with half-lidded eyes.

"You look like a brazen hussy," Midorima informed him, clinging desperately to the last tensile thread of his self-control.

Takao just laughed, sucking a bit of raspberry coolis from his thumb. "Wanna go back to the hotel?"

"What gave you that idea?"

Takao shrugged. "You're the only person who uses the dialect of a Victorian matron to signify arousal."

While Midorima was busy getting his expression back under control, Takao went off to settle the check and flirt with one of the waitresses. Midorima watched in stony silence as the girl tossed back the thick waves of her lustrous chestnut hair and gazed doe-eyed into Takao's face, murmuring endearments in her throaty French voice.

"What a shameless trollop," he said, when Takao finally escaped her wicked clutches and jogged back to his side.

"Keep talking dirty to me," Takao said, grinning, and wrapped his arms around Midorima's waist to keep him anchored. His hair smelled of lemongrass and grapefruit, the fine strands slipping like silk from Midorima's fingers. When he tilted his head back, his eyes glittered fever-bright, reflecting the little patch of night sky circumscribed by the Arc de Triomphe.

"She was teaching me French," he added, and leaned too close, his breath ghosting over Midorima's lips as he spoke. "Did you know, Shin-chan? _Je t'aime_."

"Was that an honest attempt at the proper pronounciation?" Midorima asked. "You hopeless idiot."

He slid his fingers along the curve of Takao's jaw and leaned down. Takao tasted of raspberries and creme chantilly, and for a fleeing moment Midorima had a horrible vision of Murasakibara gnawing on Takao like a stick of Pocky. Then Takao's hand clenched around Midorima's wrist, far too tight, and Midorima felt the shudder pass through the entire length of his body.

"What's wrong?" he asked, dragging him closer, suddenly terrified that Takao could shatter to pieces in his arms.

Takao laughed sharply, turning his head to the side and pressing his lips against the palm of Midorima's hand. "Nothing," he said, his voice sending vibrations along Midorima's skin. "It's nothing." He hesitated, letting his bangs fall over his eyes. "It's just -- sometimes I remember that this won't last."

"What do you mean?"

In answer Takao peered up at him for a long moment, as if to memorize the sight of Midorima's face against the Parisian nightscape. Then he took a step back, squaring his shoulders, and smiled.

"Forget it," he said. The heat of his fingers sank deep into Midorima's forearm, charring the bones beneath. "Let's go."

\--

And Midorima flinched at the whistle of wind through stone. He lifted his head to see Akashi seated on the edge of a high crypt, feet dangling in midair. Handfuls of metro tickets lay scattered on the tombstone before him.

"Shintarou," Akashi murmured, letting a wealth of promises lace his voice.

Midorima swayed towards him, a compass seeking due north. The wind was cold against his threadbare shirt; he shivered and Akashi dropped down from his perch, stroking his face with fingers like ice. Such a contrast against Akashi's hellfire-and-brimstone color scheme, with its suggestion of passion and heat.

"What is this?" he asked, the words struggling past his frozen lips.

Akashi smiled. "Who knows," he answered, slipping his hands beneath Midorima's shirt, leeching the warmth from his bare skin. "This could just be a dream. A graveyard's always a nice place to pay homage to past ghosts, isn't it?" His nails scraped against Midorima's back. "Or you waited for Takao to fall asleep, hopped in a taxi, and went to a random destination, knowing you'd find me there. You've always been lucky that way."

"Honestly, I don't think much of the venue."

"Really? I thought it was fitting." Akashi reached forward, his fingers brushing the seams of Midorima's slacks with gentle, almost delicate strokes. "But it _has_ been a while, hasn't it? Why not try something different?"

His hand slipped around the back of Midorima's neck, guiding him into a soft, chaste kiss. Midorima caught the flutter of his long eyelashes against his cheek, highlighted by a flash of red and gold. "Let me spoil you a little," Akashi whispered, nuzzling against Midorima's throat, his tongue mapping out the skin along the collar.

And Midorima jerked away in a shuddering, violent movement, a wild animal tearing itself from a trap. "Don't," he snarled, the small of his back thudding painfully against Sartre's tombstone.

"Don't spoil you?" Akashi asked, his voice not entirely calm. "Or don't -- at all?"

"What do you think," Midorima snapped back, not really sure of the answer.

Above their heads, the flickering streetlamp brought out deep amber glints in Akashi's eyes and traced the sweet curve of his smile. Midorima hesitated, drawn towards the warmth of that smile like a particularly needy moth to a flame of love, which was a metaphor so stunningly bad that it distracted him from the narrowing of Akashi's eyes until he was too close.

"Sei --" he managed, and then Akashi's slender fingers were at his throat, still ice-cold as he hooked them around Midorima's collar and dragged him choking to his knees.


End file.
